The Thirteenth Skull (7 page)

“I thought there might be one.”

“I want you to extract somebody from the civilian interface.”

“And that somebody would be ...?”

“Me.”

05:06:01:41

After breakfast, two doctors came in, escorted by the policeman Detective Black had stationed outside my door. At least, the cop
thought
they were doctors. One carried a stainless-steel valise. The other walked with a cane.

“More tests, huh?” I asked.

“More tests,” the one with the cane said.

The cop left. Nueve leaned his cane against the bed rail and sat in the chair while his buddy got to work. He gently peeled off the bandage over my nose and leaned over me, examining the damage. His breath smelled like cinnamon.

“How bad is it?”

He sniffed. “Seen worse. We'll make it work.”

He dug into the valise. I glanced at Nueve, who was smiling without showing his teeth.

“We're stopping by Samuel's room before we leave,” I told him.

“Unnecessary. It increases the risk.”

“I don't care. I want to say goodbye. I owe him that.”

He shrugged. Cinnamon-Breath was leaning over me again, applying latex prosthetics piece by piece, using a small brush and a foul-smelling adhesive.

“What did you find out about Jourdain Garmot?” I asked Nueve.

“Age: twenty-two. Citizenry: French. Marital status: single. Occupation: president and chief executive officer of Tintagel International, a consulting firm based in England that specializes in the research and development of security-related systems and software.”

“What's that mean?”

“It means its business is war.”

“War?”

“Fighting them, winning them.”

“And it's big.”

“There is no bigger business than war, Alfred.”

“Hold still,” Cinnamon-Breath scolded me. “Look up at the ceiling and don't move. I have to do your eyes.”

“The lavender goes better with the outfit,” Nueve said to him.

Cinnamon-Breath rolled his eyes. “Do I tell you how to kill people?”

Nueve shrugged. I said to Cinnamon-Breath, “He shrugs a lot.”

“He's European,” he said. “They're world-weary. Close your eyes.”

“Tintagel's board of directors voted him to the presidency after the untimely demise of our friend Monsieur Mogart,” Nueve said. “Prior to that he was a university student in Prague.”

“Why would a superrich, multinational corporation put a twenty-two-year-old college student in charge?” I asked.

“Watch him,” the makeup man said. “He's going to shrug.”

Nueve was holding himself very still in his chair.

“He fought it back,” Cinnamon-Breath said. He reached into the valise again and removed a gray wig.

“I don't know why I have to be so old,” I said.

“Who do you see the most in hospitals? Huh? What's the demographic?”

He shoved the wig over my head and began tucking my own hair up into it. He gave a soft whistle and said, “Hey, love your hairstyle and I'm really digging the gray—very post-mod radical chic—but we really should shave it off.”

“You're not cutting my hair,” I told him.

“Maybe I should just wrap some gauze around it. Like you have a head injury. We're gonna be too lumpy this way.”

“Where is Jourdain Garmot now?” I asked Nueve.

“Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?”

“He flew into Harrisburg two nights ago, where he rented a car and drove to a tiny hamlet called Suedberg.”

Something clicked when he said the name, but I couldn't pin down why Suedberg sounded familiar to me.

“What's a Frenchman who runs a company in England doing in a tiny hamlet in Pennsylvania?” I wondered aloud.

“Here it comes,” Cinnamon-Breath said. Then Nueve shrugged. “Maybe it's more a tic than a gesture.”

“More of a mannerism,” Nueve said.

“You mean affectation.”

Nueve shrugged.

Cinnamon-Breath gave the wig one last violent tug, then fluffed the tight gray curls with his fingertips. He tsk-tsked at the effect.

“Think I should have gone with a darker shade. All this hair underneath is making it bulge. And the color—you look like a human Q-tip. Oh well. All done but the lips.”

“Don't do the lips,” I said.

“I gotta do the lips. I don't do the lips, people are going to notice the hair. And we don't want them noticing the hair.”

“Why would an old lady be wearing lipstick in a hospital?” I asked.

“She's
leaving
the hospital, Kropp. A
Southern
hospital. Jeez! Now make like you're going to kiss me.”

“Make like I'm going to what?”

“Kiss me! Give me a smooch.”

“Perhaps you should purse your lips, Alfred, as if you're going to whistle a happy tune,” Nueve suggested.

I pursed my lips and avoided Cinnamon-Breath's eyes as he applied the lipstick.

“Now
that
completes the picture!” he said.

“Too red,” Nueve said.

Cinnamon-Breath ignored him. He held a hand mirror in front of my face.

“Soooo? What do you think?”

“I think I look like my grandmother.”

“Grandmother! Perfect! Now out of bed, quick; let's get you dressed.”

He pulled a flowery purple dress from the valise and laid it on the foot of the bed.

“Can't we just throw a blanket over me?” I asked.

“We could,” Nueve said. “But the transition to the car could prove difficult.”

I sighed. The makeup guy turned his back, Nueve closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall, and I slipped the dress over my wig-covered head. I asked Cinnamon-Breath to zip me up and he laughed for some reason.

“You're beautiful,” he said. “Grandma Kropp. Oh wait. I nearly forgot.”

He pulled a pair of white orthopedic sneakers from the bag.

“Oh, no,” Nueve said. “All wrong. It should be heels.”

“She has bunions—that's the idea,” Cinnamon-Breath said. “And if for any reason he has to run, you wanna see him try it in pumps? Oh, did I say one more thing? I have one more one-more-thing.”

He pulled a shawl from the valise and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he stepped back and admired his handiwork. “See why the lavender was all wrong?” he asked Nueve. “The rose goes much better with the shawl. How's he look?”

“Like an octogenarian on steroids,” said Nueve.

“How do we get past the cop?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” Cinnamon-Breath said, winking at Nueve. “I guess we should have thought of that!”

He picked up his valise and knocked twice on the door. It swung open and he stepped out of the room. After the door closed, Nueve turned to me.

“Do you still have the little gift I gave you?”

I retrieved the poisoned pen from under the pillow and slipped it into the side of my orthopedic shoe.

“Why do I need it?” I asked, following him to the door.

He smiled without showing his teeth. “No, the question is why do you persist with stupid questions?”

“A teacher told me once there's no such thing as a stupid question.”

“Your teacher is an idiot.”

He knocked on the door.

There was no policeman sitting outside. Bought off? Dragged into the stairwell and hit on the head by Cinnamon-Breath? I didn't know and I didn't dwell on it. I told myself all this clandestine crap would soon be a part of my past.

A wheelchair sat against the wall. I plopped down; Nueve tucked his cane under his arm and wheeled me to the elevator.

“Samuel's room,” I said as Nueve reached to press the button for the first floor.

“You insist?”

“I do.”

They had moved him to a private room. Nueve left me sitting in the hall and went inside. I could hear the rise and fall of their voices as they argued. Occasionally a word or two made it through the thick door. A couple of times I thought I heard the name “Sofia,” but it also could have been “sofa,” only it was hard to imagine why they would be arguing about a piece of furniture. Samuel had said the “Sofia” in ICU, and I wondered again if she was his nurse. But why would they be arguing about a nurse? Maybe Sofia was someone from Samuel's past that Nueve was trying to use against him:
Watch
yourself or we're going after Sofia.
I tried to imagine Samuel having a girlfriend, and failed.

Then Nueve came out and wheeled me inside the room. Samuel was sitting next to the window, a book open in his lap.

He took in the getup. “You look ridiculous.”

“It's a disguise, Samuel.”

“The shoes are all wrong,” he said to Nueve. “You should have gone with pumps.”

“I tried,” Nueve said. “I was overruled.”

He took a long white envelope from the outer pocket of his doctor's coat and laid it on top of Samuel's book.

“What's this?” Samuel asked.

“Your severance pay, courtesy of Senor Kropp.”

Samuel peered at the piece of paper.

“I thought you might prefer it in a Swiss account,” Nueve said.

“Twenty-five million ...” Samuel said softly. He looked up at me.

“Well,” I said. “I don't really know how old you are, but I wanted you to have at least a million dollars for every year until you, um, died.”

“Alfred Kropp,” Nueve said. “Boy adventurer, actuary.”

Samuel shoved the paper toward me. “I don't want it.”

“Of course!” Nueve murmured.

“I will not take it, Alfred.”

“Why not?”

He tore the certificate in half, then in quarters, and let the pieces flutter to the floor around his bare feet.

“You are letting your fear get the best of you,” Samuel told me.

“Well,” Nueve said. “You have made your noble gesture, Senor Kropp, and the driver is waiting.”

“Hiding solves nothing, Alfred,” Samuel said. “You have not thought this through.” He turned to Nueve. “Leave us.”

“I will not,” Nueve said.

“There is something I must discuss with him and I will not discuss it with you here.”

Nueve lost his ironical grin. “I give you five minutes.” He turned to me. “Five minutes, Alfred Kropp, or you may consider our contract null and void.”

He left, popping the butt of his cane angrily against the linoleum. Samuel gestured for me to come closer. He tugged on the flowery sleeve of my dress, and I went to one knee beside the chair so he could look me straight in the eye.

“Alfred,” he said softly. “Do you know why I refused your touch in ICU?”

“No. It was stupid.”

“There is a reason you have been given this power, Alfred. Do you believe that?”

I thought about it. “Well, it seems pretty accidental to me the way it happened.”

He placed his huge hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “You are the beloved of the Archangel Michael, Alfred Kropp. You have been chosen by the Prince of Light himself. Turn your back on that choice and you turn your back on heaven.”

I remembered my fall from the demon's back, the feeling of warmth and light and someone's arms around me as he fell with me from fire into fire, from darkness into darkness, and the voice whispering, “Beloved.”

I cleared my throat. “If that's true—and I'm not saying it is—but if it is, then why didn't you let me heal you? See, even you don't really believe it.”

“I would not let you touch me for the very reason that I
do
believe it.”

“You may not be the Op Nine anymore,” I said. “But you still talk in riddles.”

He shook his head. It hit me again how truly homely he was, with the droopy hound-dog face and black rings under his eyes, with the sallow skin and huge ears.

“These men who tried to kill you will not abandon their mission simply because the object goes into hiding. Eventually, no matter how cleverly OIPEP hides you, you will be found. Better to turn and face the danger head-on, now, at a time and place of your choosing, not theirs. In a few weeks, I can help you ...”

I shoved his hand off my shoulder and stood up, backing away as I talked. Now I didn't feel so much like crying as punching him in his sad hound-dog face.

“It isn't my fault this time,” I said. “All I want is a normal life. Why can't I have that? Why can everybody else have that but I can't? You
chose
to be an Operative Nine ...”

“Yes, and I also chose to be your guardian, and now you would deny me that.”

“That's it?
That's
why you're pissed? Okay, then, come with me. They'll let you. They'll do anything for the Seal—”

“I am still your guardian, Alfred, whether I go with you or not. And as your guardian, I must do what I feel is best for you. These people trying to hurt you—whoever they are—will continue to hunt you, though the Company hides you in the remotest corner of the globe. Do you understand?
They will
not stop hunting you until you are dead.
”

I turned my back on him and went to the door.

“Alfred!” he called after me. “You should not trust this Nueve.”

“What makes you think I trust him?”

“He is the Operative Nine. For him, the Company's interest trumps all others.”

“I'm giving him the Seal, Samuel. He's getting what the Company wants.”

“The Company's wants are many.”

“What's that mean? What are you talking about?”

He looked away from me. “The promises of an Operative Nine are written in water, Alfred.”

“Okay ...” I waited for him to explain what the heck he was getting at.

“He may have ... other interests that conflict with yours. With ours.”

“I'll be careful.”

I hung by the door, waiting for something but not sure what. Then it occurred to me it might not be a “what,” but a “who.”